But, week after week, all the workers remained safe. No one developed a terminal disease. No one accidentally died. And the time came when Birenda and her father could no longer hide the pregnancy.
“But she wasn't next on the list to have a child!” said Lucia Boma before the Council. “My husband and I petitioned two years ago. We were supposed to be next.”
With tears streaming down her face, Birenda had been forced to confess the full story, raising herself up for censure—not for immoral behavior, but because she had upset the delicate balance of the colony.
She and Ando Rivera were about the same age, and it was assumed that they would be matched as a couple, since the colony offered so few possible candidates. Every settler had his or her set of duties; she and Ando were often assigned to go outside to set up racks of genetically modified algae webs, testing strain after strain to see if anything could survive in Antorra's environment.
One day, while returning from their duties, Birenda and Ando had been in the changing room, removing their suits, stripping down to clean jumpsuits as they had done hundreds of times before. They both were sixteen, saturated with hormones, half naked, alone together—and it had just happened. They hadn't paused to consider preventive measures.
Ando had avoided her for many days afterward, and she hadn't even been able to tell him when she first knew about the pregnancy. . . .
“She will keep the baby,” her father said to the Council, as if daring anyone to countermand him. “There will be no talk of forcing her to get rid of it, just because this wasn't in our plans. I know what it means, and I have several months to prepare myself before my daughter gives birth.”
Deputy Orrick looked pleased and self-important; he'd been waiting for his turn as the next administrator, as soon as Walton Fleer was gone. Birenda despised the man. Her father was a long-term thinker who planned for the future of the colony, aware that he would be long gone when the main colony ship arrived in thirty-eight years to save them all; Orrick, on the other hand, considered only his own brief flash of prominence once he became the colony administrator. (He shouldn't be looking too far forward, Birenda thought, since his name was also on the list, and only a handful of names from the top.)
After glancing at his fellow Council members, the deputy folded his hands and gave a solemn nod. “One life begins, and another ends. Some will survive, or none will survive.”
Birenda's stomach knotted, and she forced herself not to say anything. When the solution came to her, it seemed so clear and so obvious, she caught her breath.
She would have to kill Orrick.
* * * *
For the next several months, Birenda concocted and discarded numerous possibilities, all the while hoping that her thoughts of death did not taint the life within her. She felt overwhelmed with love for the unborn baby, a powerful nurturing instinct. She wanted to protect it, provide a home for it.
Dr. Hajid provided basic prenatal care but performed only cursory tests, clearly resenting her for her indiscretion, which had sent repercussions through the fragile equilibrium.
Even before leaving Earth, the bulk of the colonists on the main ship had considered the tough, conservative pioneers to be a little backward; they refused to check the sex of a baby or perform anything but the most rudimentary of prenatal screenings. The colony doctor was even more aloof than necessary with Birenda, though, as if he didn't care whether the baby was healthy or not. She realized that some in the colony secretly hoped for her to miscarry, or perhaps die in childbirth, so they could get their chance.
Nevertheless, Birenda knew that the baby was progressing well. She studied all the information available in the colony library about pregnancy and childbirth—and she found plenty, because Antorra should have been a place teeming with children after only the first few years.
As she thought of the future, Birenda was sure that her child would still be alive, perhaps even the colony administrator, when the main ship arrived. Thirty-eight years . . . that wasn't so much to ask for her son or daughter. What seemed less likely, though, was that her father would survive long enough for the baby to remember its grandfather. The vagaries of the list would shift and change, and sooner or later Walton Fleer would be the one.
But perhaps not now.
When she reached her eighth month, Birenda felt a growing sense of urgency. As soon as the baby was born, her father would be taken away. She was young, and since this was her first pregnancy, she knew she could easily go into premature labor. She had to put one of her plans into practice, before it was too late. She had to get rid of Deputy Orrick, so the numbers remained balanced.
Birenda reviewed Captain Tyrson's last message again and again, drawing strength from his brave words. All her life she had been taught the realities of the colony. Every person inside the sheltered domes knew the math and the reasons for it. The colony had to survive. Some of them, or none of them. All was never an option.
It wasn't hard to think of a way to kill Deputy Orrick; she simply had to choose which method would be easiest. Since life on Antorra was already so hazardous, a slight tweaking of life-support parameters would do the trick. Perhaps she could loosen a seal in his environment suit the next time he was scheduled to do outside work. Or she could arrange for a leak in his private quarters, allowing poisonous chlorine air to seep in while he was sleeping.
Planning a fatal mishap for the obnoxious deputy did not strike her with any undue terror. She'd seen people euthanized all her life as their names rose to the top of the list, and accidents claimed many more. Only the number 174 remained a constant.
Day after day, Birenda sat for long hours with her father, resting her hands on the curve of her stomach, but she kept her dark thoughts to herself. Back in their quiet quarters, Walton Fleer was preoccupied, his mood bittersweet. He savored every remaining moment he had with his daughter. She didn't dare tell him what she planned, because then he would feel obligated either to stop her or report her to the Council. Deep inside, she didn't want him to know.
Walton talked wistfully of her mother, his wife, and the times they had spent together during the long journey from Earth, the plans they had made for their future, and how they had hoped Birenda would be only the first of many children. Birenda remembered the woman, but not well. Her most vivid image of her mother was from Captain Tyrson's security tape. She had studied her mother's face, then watched as the woman and eighteen others were sucked out of the airlock, sacrificed so the rest of the colonists could survive.
Birenda wished she had known her better.
“We'll only have a few more weeks together, child,” her father said, then let out a sigh. “It'll be enough.”
To kill Orrick, Birenda decided to use one of the new mutated strains of algae that, according to preliminary tests, exuded an extremely toxic substance. It was a trivial thing for her to slip it into the deputy's daily food ration. In a way, she thought, his death and autopsy would provide valuable medical data for the colony's benefit.
Sitting next to her father, she was distracted, thinking of her plans. Walton Fleer just stared at her, drinking in every detail of her face. “I love you, Birenda,” he said.
* * * *
Because she had already planned it through, and also because she felt the ticking time bomb inside her womb, Birenda acted quickly. She did not feel guilty, made no effort to speak with Deputy Orrick one last time. She was simply moving his name to the top of the list, maintaining the colony balance: 174. Her father would stay alive, and the baby would have another loving, nurturing presence for as long as it might last.
She supposed she would have to marry Ando Rivera. After her confession during the bitter Council meeting, the young man had acted strangely around Birenda, as if he didn't want to see her, as if he blamed her for getting pregnant. But that would change after the baby was born—for the good of the colony. Maybe someday their son or daughter would look up to Ando with the same warmth and appreciation as Birenda looke
d up to Walton Fleer. She smiled at the thought.
When her father came back to their quarters, his sickened expression told her that she had succeeded. “It seems I have been given a reprieve,” he said. “Deputy Orrick just died.”
“That's terrible.” Birenda needed all of her strength to keep from jumping up with joy. “How did it happen?” The words sounded false even to her ears.
“Extreme allergic reaction to one of the algae strains in his food. They'll be running other tests, but he's dead . . . we're in balance. 174.” He sank into the hard chair, shaking. “I was ready. I had my mind made up. But I can't pretend that I wouldn't like to see my grandchild.”
Birenda clamped her mouth shut before she could reveal what she had done. He must never know.
Then the first hard contractions hit.
* * * *
In the medical center, Dr. Hajid tended her, fully professional now, though he still didn't approve. With the baby coming, a new life for the colony, he was the doctor and he took his responsibilities seriously. His face was pinched, his dark eyes intent, but he voiced no criticism. He didn't really know what he was doing, with little opportunity to gain obstetrics expertise, considering the few births allowed, but he was the best the colony had.
Her father was there in the delivery room—she saw his face watching over her, and she felt comforted. Birenda knew that everything was all right. The delicate balance was kept at 174, thanks to Deputy Orrick's unfortunate end.
Even when she heard Dr. Hajid say something about complications, as if from a distance even farther away than the main colony ship, Birenda wasn't concerned. She was hazy through it all. Perhaps Hajid gave her too many painkillers. The doctor's face looked grave as he said he needed to do a Caesarean, and her father granted permission.
Birenda lay back under the anesthetic, drifting, comforted. As the gray fuzz tightened to a pinprick around her eyes, she had a last glimpse of her father looking worried, but giving her a smile of reassurance. . . .
When she awoke, she had a hard time focusing on Dr. Hajid's face in front of her. She felt disoriented, tried to concentrate. He was speaking in words as sharp and hard as his medical instruments. “The delivery was successful.”
Her eyes tried to fall closed again, but she forced them open. Of course it was successful, she thought. But she didn't notice her father there, and wondered if he was holding the baby.
She wanted to see him, croaked his name, but the doctor wasn't finished. “There has been one surprise—fortunate or unfortunate, depending on how you look at it.”
“Where is my father?” she asked.
“I am sorry to say that he is gone.” Hajid didn't look sorry at all.
Then the doctor and his assistant came close to her at the bedside. He was holding a blanket-wrapped bundle, as was his assistant.
Two babies. Birenda didn't understand.
“Administrator Fleer surrendered himself right away, while you were still unconscious. He felt it would be better that way.” The doctor gave her a shallow smile. “But he did want to congratulate you on the birth of your twins.”
Copyright (C) 2012 Kevin J. Anderson
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* * *
Novelette: ECCE SIGNUM
by Craig DeLancey
Fighting fire with fire can be risky, but when the alternatives are worse . . .
“Is it a sign of middle age that everything seems to me a metaphor?” I waved at the chalk outline of David Ressar's corpse. A round flatscreen was set into the center of the living room floor of David's Manhattan brownstone. It portrayed, as always, a geosynchronous live shot of Earth taken from directly above. The outline of where David had fallen, already dead, sprawled across the Western hemisphere. A red stain of blood had dried over most of North America.
“Vitruvian man, fallen,” I said. “Or: Man on the Crossroads. Or: ‘Oh my America, my new-murdered land.’ What do you think?”
Edgar fixed his green eyes on me, unconvinced by my gallows humor. “Janet, are you all right?”
“Of course not, Edgar.” I sat on one of David's couches. Edgar and I were alone here. The police were finished with the house, and had handed it over to Edgar as David's executor. Our every word echoed loudly against the hardwood floors and sparsely decorated walls of the empty home. The only other sound was the occasional honk of an electric car passing outside.
“David Ressar was the last of his generation,” I said. It still smelled like David in here: like worn leather, sandalwood, and old books. The last because the room was lined with real paper books. That would seem an affectation to most people nowadays; why read Yeats when you could play a movie anytime in your head? Poetry doesn't translate over telepathy. But David had collected the books during his youth, and kept them all his life, tokens of a passed age. I expected David to hobble into the room at any minute. But he wouldn't. Never again. “He was the last of the first generation of our kind. He was our spiritual leader this last decade. Of course I'm not all right. But I did my crying at the funeral. I can keep it together. Besides, this must be twice as hard on you as it is on me. He was your mentor. Practically your father.”
Edgar nodded.
I looked back toward the hallway. A white outline chalked in the doorway showed where David's German Shepherd, Hera, had fallen. I sighed. “How am I going to explain that to my dog, Juno?” I asked Edgar. “Hera was his sister.” And then, contrary to my promise, I started crying. Why are we always so much more sentimental about pets than people? Maybe our pets give us permission to be emotional.
Edgar sighed and sat next to me. He put his arm over my shoulders and I leaned my head on his hard bicep. I'd taught Edgar math for a while, at the Marrion School, when he was a thin and quiet little boy. He learned quickly, went off to college, and returned to work as one of our security policy people. He'd grown into the man I expected, smart and kind and thoughtful. It made me proud.
We stared at the blood-stained Earth projected on the floor. Clouds swirled over the Caribbean: another hurricane festering over the hot waters. The storm would come north soon, and drive the sea farther still up onto the land. Cold, punishing rains would come to us up here in the Northeast soon after.
When I got myself under control, I told Edgar, “Humor an old woman who refuses to get a telepathy chip. Speak. Tell me what you know.”
He nodded politely. Young people today usually hate talking, and are bad at it. But we demanded excellence in oral communications at the Marrion School. He started slowly. “All right.” He sat forward and put his hands between his knees. “Someone entered here around ten p.m. No forced entry. The keypad around back was used. I didn't like it that David had this whole place without cameras or biometrics, but he insisted on leaving some way for us—for Marrion people—to come and go without leaving a trail.”
“So the person who killed him knew the entry code,” I said. “Someone betrayed him. One of us.”
Edgar frowned. “You can't be sure who it is.”
I tilted my head skeptically. “But we can start with the most likely suspects, can't we?” We were both thinking the same thing: the most likely suspect was my sister, Virginia.
“Tell me the rest,” I said.
Edgar pointed to the door. “David's dog was shot in the doorway, once in the head. David was over here, by the bay window. You know how he liked to think while staring out at the city. He turned toward the door, and was shot twice, in the chest. Ceramic bullets. Unusual caliber, and no trace metals on the bullets: the gun was ceramic also. That's an expensive, specialty weapon. Combined with what the coroner told us, we can be certain that this is a corporate assassin.”
He got up suddenly and started pacing. He must have realized he looked very upset, because he forced himself to stop, his feet at the end of the outline of David's feet. You could tell he wished he could fling himself back in time to fight for the old man.
“The assassin died in a shoot-out with the cop
s, just a block from here. And you know why? He couldn't get to the subway fast enough. His ankle was broken. Ninety-eight years old, and David was still a tough bastard. David's lungs were probably already full of blood, but with two bullets in him he made it across the room, broke the assassin's ankle, and tripped the alarm on his way.”
I reached out and took Edgar's hand. “This killing was meant to slow us down.”
He nodded, fighting tears. “It will only speed us up.”
“Good,” I said. “I'm tired of being hunted. I think it's time to be done with it. I'm going to collect my dog and then pay a visit to my sister. Right after you tell me about the coroner's report on the assassin.”
Edgar thought for a moment, then touched my glasses. Photographs streamed across my visual field. Photographs of a ruined brain.
* * * *
During my seventh year at the Marrion School, when most of my classmates were twelve, they called us together to tell us the secret.
My sister Virginia was a year older than me, but they had waited to tell her. The teachers and counselors told my mother it was because of me, that it would be hard for Virginia to keep a secret from her younger sister. But that wasn't true. Virginia didn't tell me anything. The counselors at the school just didn't think Virginia was ready. I don't think they would have told her, ever, if they didn't know someone—me, most likely—would tell her eventually. And, with my mother insisting that Virginia be given a place in the school, they really had no choice. No one could deny my mother: Hippolyta Sumaran had suffered too much for the cause.
Virginia was near tears in the back of the class when they called us. All the other kids left, but I went to get her. She held a pair of scissors and next to her on the table lay a box covered with ruined heaps of construction paper. She was trying to make something, in the minutes we had left. In her lap lay a crumpled picture she'd picked for her inspiration: scrawny penguins on a rocky shore, lost without ice. She'd meant to make a diorama of that. And then she was supposed to make climate models to explain how things ended up like in the diorama. Mine had been done for a week: a diorama of a bleached coral reef, made out of white modeling clay. I was proud of it. My computer model showed ocean currents as little dark blue arrows turning in the pale aqua seas of a map of our hemisphere. It illustrated how changes in their flow altered the air currents also, so that the summer warmth now roasted the southern U.S. but no longer reached to England.
Analog SFF, April 2012 Page 7